Propense his heart to idols, he is held In silly dotage on created things, Careless of their Creator.
And that low And sordid gravitation of his powers
To a vile clod so draws him, with such force Resistless from the centre he should seek, That he at last forgets it. All his hopes Tend downward; his ambition is to sink, To reach a depth profounder still, and still Profounder, in the fathomless abyss Of folly, plunging in pursuit of death. But, ere he gain the comfortless repose He seeks, and acquiescence of his soul, In heaven-renouncing exile, he endures- What does he not, from lusts opposed in vain, And self-reproaching conscience? He foresees The fatal issue to his health, fame, peace, Fortune and dignity; the loss of all That can ennoble man, and make frail life, Short as it is, supportable. Still worse,
Far worse than all the plagues, with which his sins Infect his happiest moments, he forebodes. Ages of hopeless misery. Future death, And death still future. Not a hasty stroke, Like that which sends him to the dusty grave; But unrepealable enduring death.
Scripture is still a trumpet to his fears: What none can prove a forgery may be true; What none but bad men wish exploded must. That scruple checks him. Riot is not loud
Nor drunk enough to drown it.
Of laughter his compunctions are sincere ; And he abhors the jest by which he shines. Remorse begets reform. His master-lust Falls first before his resolute rebuke,
And seems dethroned and vanquish'd. Peace
But spurious and short-lived; the puny child Of self-congratulating pride, begot
On fancied innocence. Again he falls, And fights again; but finds his best essay A presage ominous, portending still Its own dishonour by a worse relapse. Till Nature, unavailing Nature, foil'd So oft, and wearied in the vain attempt, Scoffs at her own performance. Reason now Takes part with appetite, and pleads the cause Perversely, which of late she so condemn'd; With shallow shifts and old devices, worn And tatter'd in the service of debauch, Covering his shame from his offended sight. "Hath God indeed given appetites to man, And stored the earth so plenteously with means To gratify the hunger of his wish ;
And doth he reprobate, and will he damn The use of his own bounty? making first So frail a kind, and then enacting laws So strict, that less than perfect must despair? Falsehood! which whoso but suspects of truth Dishonours God, and makes a slave of man.
Do they themselves, who undertake for hire The teacher's office, and dispense at large Their weekly dole of edifying strains, Attend to their own music? have they faith In what, with such solemnity of tone And gesture, they propound to our belief? Nay-conduct hath the loudest tongue. The voice Is but an instrument, on which the priest May play what tune he pleases. In the deed, The unequivocal, authentic deed,
We find sound argument, we read the heart.”
Such reasonings (if that name must needs belong
To excuses in which reason has no part) Serve to compose a spirit well inclined
To live on terms of amity with vice, And sin without disturbance. Often urged, (As often as libidinous discourse Exhausted, he resorts to solemn themes Of theological and grave import)
They gain at last his unreserved assent; Till, harden'd his heart's temper in the forge Of lust, and on the anvil of despair,
He slights the strokes of conscience. Nothing
Or nothing much, his constancy in ill;
Vain tampering has but foster'd his disease; 'Tis desperate, and he sleeps the sleep of death. Haste now, philosopher, and set him free. Charm the deaf serpent wisely. Make him hear Of rectitude and fitness, moral truth
How lovely, and the moral sense how sure, Consulted and obeyed, to guide his steps Directly to the first and only fair.
Spare not in such a cause. Spend all the Of rant and rhapsody in virtue's praise: Be most sublimely good, verbosely grand, And with poetic trappings grace thy prose, Till it outmantle all the pride of verse.— Ah, tinkling cymbal, and high-sounding brass, Smitten in vain! such music cannot charm The eclipse that intercepts truth's heavenly beam, And chills and darkens a wide wandering soul. The STILL SMALL VOICE is wanted. He must speak, Whose word leaps forth at once to its effect; Who calls for things that are not, and they come.
Grace makes the slave a freeman. 'Tis a change
That turns to ridicule the turgid speech And stately tone of moralists, who boast, As if, like him of fabulous renown, They had indeed ability to smooth The shag of savage nature, and were each An Orpheus, and omnipotent in song. But transformation of apostate man From fool to wise, from earthly to divine, Is work for Him that made him. He alone, And He by means in philosophic eyes Trivial and worthy of disdain, achieves The wonder; humanizing what is brute In the lost kind, extracting from the lips Of asps their venom, overpowering strength By weakness, and hostility by love.
Patriots have toil'd, and in their country's cause Bled nobly; and their deeds, as they deserve, Receive proud recompense. We give in charge Their names to the sweet lyre. The historic muse, Proud of the treasure, marches with it down To latest times; and Sculpture, in her turn, Gives bond in stone and ever-during brass To guard them, and to immortalize her trust: But fairer wreaths are due, though never paid, To those who, posted at the shrine of Truth, Have fallen in her defence. A patriot's blood, Well spent in such a strife, may earn indeed, And for a time ensure to his loved land, The sweets of liberty and equal laws; But martyrs struggle for a brighter prize, And win it with more pain. Their blood is shed In confirmation of the noblest claim-
Our claim to feed upon immortal truth, To walk with God, to be divinely free,
To soar, and to anticipate the skies.
Yet few remember them. They lived unknown Till Persecution dragg'd them into fame,
And chased them up to heaven. Their ashes flew -No marble tells us whither. With their names No bard embalms and sanctifies his song: And history, so warm on meaner themes, Is cold on this. She execrates indeed The tyranny that doom'd them to the fire, But gives the glorious sufferers little praise.*
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